


historically, the uncertainty principle has been confused

by anomalousity



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Bad Jokes, Fluff, M/M, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-10
Updated: 2014-11-10
Packaged: 2018-02-24 20:18:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2595110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anomalousity/pseuds/anomalousity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“How many Heisenbergs does it take to screw in a light bulb?”</p><p>Sex Hair shrugs and raises his eyebrows. “How many?”</p><p>“If you know the number, you don’t know where the light bulb is.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	historically, the uncertainty principle has been confused

**Author's Note:**

> 100% me exploiting my terrible sense of humor and projecting it onto characters who probably have a better sense of humor than I do.
> 
> Scratch that, who _definitely_ have a better sense of humor than I do.
> 
> The title is the funniest phrase I've ever seen on a Wikipedia article relating to science. If you have a minute, check out the [article](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Uncertainty_principle) because it's loaded with terrible, terrible puns.
> 
> Yell at me on [tumblr](http://buckybaarnes.co.vu).

_Shit_. “Fuck.”

Of all of the places for the metro to break down, it had to be a goddamn tunnel. Granted, it’s far more likely for the metro to break down in the tunnels of Brooklyn than it is to break down anywhere else but still. Steve doesn’t even have the afternoon chatter to keep his mind occupied; it’s just him and some guy five rows back in this car.

He looks at his watch. Ten minutes, and he’ll be fucked royally, not that he wasn’t already.

Ten minutes, and ten minutes, on top of ten minutes, means he’s fired. Another thirty and he’s fired and blacklisted. Maybe he could do comic books, except he can’t write for shit.

Stripping’s never been officially ruled out, but Steve thinks he’s safe in making the assumption that no one’s going to want to see his hipbones or the little dip at the center of his chest.

“Fuck,” he grumbles, pushing out of his seat and tapping the open doors button. The doors don’t open, they didn’t the other five times he tapped the button. “Fucking fuck.”

Sighing, he slumps back into a seat, this time considerably closer to the one other passenger in the car. From this vantage point, he can sort of make out half of the guy’s face. A cheekbone that’s sharp enough to cut someone, and eyelashes, eyelashes, _eyelashes_. There’s day old scruff on the guy’s chin, and his hair suggests that he either spent like an hour gelling it to perfection or spent a second trying to look like he wasn’t fucked out of his mind the night before and failed miserably.

This is why Steve doesn’t like delays; he gets sidetracked.

He grumbles as he takes out his phone and calls his boss. She picks up after the third ring. “Steve? Where the fuck are you?”

“The train stopped near Bergen Street, but I’m not sure where,” Steve replies. “Think there’s been a break.”

“Huh.”

He is so fucking fired he can feel it in his bones.

Then, “I’ll cut you a break, Rogers, because it’s not your fault, but if it happens again we’re going to have a talk.”

“Gotcha,” Steve mutters, before saying goodbye and tapping the little red icon. He slumps into his seat and looks at the grimy underbelly of greater suburbia and discounts any future prospects of happiness. He is, admittedly, pessimistic, but it’s within reason.

“Ugh.”

Steve sighs and rolls himself into a little ball and tucks up against the window, intent to ignore whatever the fuck it is Sergeant Sex Hair is dishing out. He’s content to shut his eyes and let the delay be an impromptu naptime; he won’t have some rumpled babe ruin it for him, no matter how rumpled or how babe-ish.

 There is the sound of a phone’s ring on speaker, and there is the soft sound of a sigh and a grunt and another sigh. Maybe Sex Hair’s late for work too; it’d be the only reason for anyone to take the blue at eight in the morning.

Steve tries not to listen in, but when a woman’s voice asks what the fuck ‘James’ thinks he’s doing and why the fuck he isn’t at base, he just sort of has to.

“I’m on the goddamn train, Nat, what the fuck-”

“I don’t care if you’re on the train, moron, there’s an op in-”

“I fuckin’ know where I’m being sent, I’m going to the airport.”

“Sure.”

“Fuck off.”

“Love you too, James.”

Another sigh, then, “Don’t let Wilson eat all of the Chinese I know you’re going to be buying tonight.”

Then the loud snap of a _very_ old phone that would have to belong to a bureaucrat or someone who just doesn’t give a shit, and then a groan.

Okay, maybe Steve can spare a few minutes for Sex Hair/CIA agent/something more covert. He’s intrigued, and he’s only human.

And he’s uncurling his body and leaning across the aisle. “Hi,” he says, cautiously. The guy probably knows how to kill Steve with his pinky finger; he doesn’t want to be an asshole to someone who could literally tear him a new one.

Thankfully, the guy doesn’t. He glances up and gives Steve a pained, albeit nice, smile. “Hey.”

All right, maybe Steve could revise the name. Turns out Sex Hair’s got the whole sex face thing going on too. Pouty lips, scruff, and fuck-me-eyes that are bluer than should probably be possible. He even looks fucking good under fluorescents for fuck’s sake, and isn’t that just the icing on the cake.

Steve leans back in his chair and tucks his legs up into a pretzel-cross before resting his elbows on his knees. “Hey,” he says. “Wanna hear a joke?” Steve’s got some real smooth moves.

The guy just gives him a little frown before quirking a smirk. “Give it your best shot, short stuff.”

Steve ignores the jibe and continues, “How many Heisenbergs does it take to screw in a light bulb?”

Sex Hair shrugs and raises his eyebrows. “How many?”

“If you know the number, you don’t know where the light bulb is,” Steve mutters. Then, “Ba-dum-tsh, I’m here all week.”

The guy isn’t laughing, but his face is doing this absolutely horrendous thing where it looks like it’s crumpling in on itself. Then, he’s snickering under his breath, and then he’s outright guffawing like it’s the funniest goddamn thing in the whole world.

When he catches his breath, and wipes at his eyes, he stares Steve long and hard in the eyes and says, “That was the worst joke I’ve ever heard.”

“Oh, so that’s how it is?”

“Yeah, that’s how it is.”

“All right, wise guy, how ‘bout you show me what you got?”

The guy scrubs at his chin and considers for a moment, his pretty blue eyes focusing on something behind Steve’s head for all of ten seconds before he smirks and scoots forward in his seat until his and Steve’s knees are a few inches apart.

“Ready?” he asks, giving Steve a grin. Steve nods and scoots forward in his seat until he nudges the guy’s knees with his own. “All right, how do nerves communicate?”

Steve smirks. “I don’t know, how?”

“With cell phones.”

“Oh my god.”

“Right?”

“Oh my _god_.”

“ _Right_?”

Steve almost falls out of his seat as he reaches across their laps and takes the guy’s hand in his own. “That was the worst thing I’ve ever heard. I’m Steve, nice to meet you.”

The guy’s grip is nice, and he returns Steve’s enthusiasm immediately. “I’m Bucky,” he says, grinning so wide Steve’s worried his face is going to split in two.

Maybe Steve’d be okay with that smile for a while. Maybe a long while. There are little wrinkles by Bucky’s eyes, suggesting that he’s older than he looks when he’s glum and morose and Sex Hair-ish. Maybe Steve’s age, even; probably a little older, like, late-twenties older.

Steve may or may not mentally pat himself on the back for taking this particular route to work. Bucky, as it turns out, is quite the catch.

They exchange terrible jokes for the two and a half hours the end up being stuck in this segment of the Brooklyn underground. Bucky’s twenty-nine, as Steve suspected more or less, and not dating anyone, but has a sister/best friend/sort-of-step-mom called Nat who’s his favorite person in the whole world. Bucky, who despite his gruff and weathered exterior, is a retired army man.

Bucky, who Steve not so subtly found out, is gay.

Bucky, who’s got a fantastic smile.

“Hey,” Steve says, right after the driver announces that they’ll be arriving at Downtown Plaza in just under two minutes. “Gimme your phone.

Bucky tilts his head, but is still smiling. “Why?” he asks, even as he reaches into his pocket and digs out the shitty flip phone Steve suspected he owned.

Steve takes it and types in his number under the name, “Steve Totallyhotguyfromtheblueline,” before answering, “So you can take me for dinner sometime. Tonight, er, whenever you’re free and I’m free and we need food.” Like he said, _smooth_.

Bucky notices it too, and his smile morphs into something more wry than should be appropriate. “When we’re free and need food, huh?” he asks, disbelief and humor coloring his tone and making Steve’s insides shrivel up and swell simultaneously. He probably should’ve brought his inhaler, but to be fair, he didn’t know he was going to be meeting the best guy in his city on the blue towards Manhattan.

“Yeah,” Steve says. “People tend to, uh, need to eat… food. And it’s better to, uh, eat food with other people who need to… eat… food.”

“Is this you’re extremely smooth way of asking me out, Rogers?”

Steve swallows and smirks, but doesn’t meet Bucky’s eyes because, okay, he’s fucking weak. “Yeah, it’s my way of asking you out, Barnes.”

“Meet me tonight at Bijan’s, and bring an appetite.”

“… yeah?”

“You fuckin’ bet.”

“Huh.”

Bucky laughs and leans over to pat his shoulder. Steve doesn’t say a damn thing when his hand lingers a little too long, but he doesn’t need to. He’s already leaning into it, and yeah okay, Steve might not be the kind of guy to do well with everyone, but he’s gotten around a few times. He can flirt, despite being moderately terrible at it. He works his own awkward like a fucking champ, and he knows Bucky knows that.

Then the bell chimes for Downtown Plaza and the train slows and there are people climbing into the train and Steve’s grabbing his destroyed backpack and leaning into Bucky’s space for another minute before he’s squeezing Bucky’s hand and darting out the doors and into the musty air of the station.

And, hours later when he gets off work, he all but sprints to Bijan’s even though his lungs are tight and he’s sweating through his thin plaid button-up. He’s almost keen on stopping when he sees a broad body leaning against the brick like something out of West Side Story, minus the terrible snapping and the high top sneakers of course, and he grins from ear to ear before doubling time and all but sprinting into Bucky’s body head first.

There are hot hands on his shoulders and a grinning face above his and Steve’s grinning back, and sure, the air smells like smoke and shit and Brooklyn, but he doesn’t give a shit.

“Skinny body like yours, I doubt you can even eat one plate, let alone unlimited.”

And that, precisely, is what does Steve in.

He totally finishes three plates, by the way, before suggesting that they go to a bar and get shit-faced. And, as he suspected, Bucky’s a damn good kisser. All lips and just enough tongue and a knee between Steve’s and it’s perfect, perfect, _perfect_.

Bucky asks him if he’s free to go dancing on Friday. Steve tells him for anyone else, he wouldn’t be. Bucky kisses him again and tells him to meet him in front of his building. “I’m room 402,” he says, none too subtly.

Steve may or may not be smitten, but he sure as hell tells him that he’ll be there. And, three days later, he grins when a half dressed Bucky opens the door with a smirk and presents him with a bag of flour.

“I got you flours,” Steve says, leaning up onto his tip toes even before Bucky takes the bag off his hands.

“Your jokes suck,” Bucky replies, against his lips.

He may or may not be completely and wonderfully perfect.


End file.
